


The Life that Died with Shame

by DaughterofProspero



Category: Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Not Really Character Death, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:39:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5708437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Done to death by slanderous tongues<br/>Was the Hero that here lies.<br/>Death in guerdon of her wrongs,<br/>Gives her fame which never dies.<br/>So the life that died with shame<br/>Lives in death with glorious fame."<br/>-Much Ado About Nothing V.iii</p>
<p>Claudio and Don Pedro's night at "Hero's grave".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life that Died with Shame

Only the warm summer breeze and the crunch of your boots against the gravelly road keep your mind from spiralling ever further into despair with the absence of sound. The candle in your hand wavers but you will not let it blow out, not this light – worth nothing, kingdoms less than life – but you fear if the flickering flame that dances perilously close to the shield of your hand vanishes you will freeze and never move again. Rooted, a petrified tree that does not live but will not fall. White wax has dripped onto your equally pallid knuckles and there is a blister forming on your ring finger from where the wind coaxed the fire too close.

But you feel nothing. 

Behind you is another somber shell, two dots of solemn light in the otherwise indistinct midnight. Again the wind whistles briskly against your bending flame and that of the candle behind you. Never before have you lead a procession when the Prince is in your party. He, also leaves cylindrical imprints where his royal hands meet the slowly tearing wax. Peter the Rock. The unflappable Don Pedro of Aragon bows his princely head to shame.

Presently your heavy footsteps lead you to the last face you wish to see: That of the father-in-law that never was (and never will be). The feeble moonshine plays havoc with the lines on his face, suddenly too numerous to count and too deep to erase. He stands before the torch-lit entrance to a mausoleum, all hard shapes and unforgiving stone. It is merciful, perhaps that Leonato does not speak but a mercy that brings comfort cold as the touch of the dead. Wordlessly, you are lead to the passage, and descend into the confines of the tomb below. The noise of the wind outside warps, muffles, and fades altogether. The echo of your footsteps keeps you sane but soon you must stop for an undusted slab of stone is before you, too new, even, to have yet been engraved.

Speech comes with difficulty. Your throat is raw from keeping prisoner restless cries and the tongue that once cursed your love so forcefully refuses to obey its owner as penance. Sluggishly, you and your similarly weak companion manage to emit a hollow epitaph. Your wavering notes bounce around the chamber and fly back at you from every angle. The urge to wretch rises but not in here, not now. 

When the last phrase dissipates the two of you gaze mutely at her coffin, time standing strangely still. No natural light can reach you, your wicks are burning low. Fumbled prayers are offered until your legs ache and you’re sure that hell is purgatory. An endless promontory stretching before you, barren and bleak, no joy, no love, and all of your own creation.

The candles are barely more than puddles of wax, resting on two of the four polished stone corners that cover the mausoleum’s youngest dweller. A drop of wax softly plummets to the ground next to the Prince’s feet. He has been sitting statuesque for a while now, staring into nothing. His back is chilled, pressed up against the side of the coffin, inches away from a blameless body. His eyes begin to droop and his head follows suit, nodding off into dreams of brothers and battles and innocent bones.  
You brush your fingertips over the slab’s smooth surface and rest your hand there, feeling the heat drain out of it. Bringing your forehead down, your rest it, too, against the slab upon which opaque patches form, capturing your breath. Your lips move, working against the barrier between you and your victim. Every word of atonement, every form of apology, every futile effort to give your breath to her is uttered soundlessly onto the stone until you join the Prince in nebulous dreams, mouth half-open in attempted absolution.

So you stay, long after the little firelight you had left turns to nothing more than a wisp of silent smoke.

**Author's Note:**

> In some scripts it says Balthazar is there and/or there are bigger processions etc.  
> In this world it's just the two of 'em.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated.  
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
